now he’s gotten involved. cinderblock foot on the gas down the 101 or the 110 or the 45678.  we have to go south. he asks me if i thought he’d ever see my message. the answer is an obvious no. “i hate this,” he says, and i understand exactly what he means. and that he means it. i don’t remember how i ended up in california, the steps of migration. it takes seven hours to find a clinic. he drives the entire way. the parking lot has exactly one creaking street light in the center, a faint chorus of “life begins at conception!” hanging hingelike around the edges. slid halfway down the seat, his eyes sit just above the steering wheel vantage point. a special kind of secret agent, he waits for me out front.